


Ficmas 2019 Shorts

by Bohemienne



Series: Ficmas 2019 [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ficmas, Ficmas 2019, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21610699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: Assorted short fiction for Bohemienne's Ficmas 2019 prompt gifts!Chapter heading will list ship (if applicable) + gift recipient. In effort to keep this from getting too cluttered, additional tags and content warnings will be in the notes at the beginning of each chapter.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley & Hubert von Vestra, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Ficmas 2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1550113
Comments: 31
Kudos: 293
Collections: Sun & Moon 《Ferdibert》





	1. Hubert/Ferdinand for rkdawg

**Author's Note:**

> **Hubert/Ferdinand for rkdawg**
> 
> Hubert grows increasingly distracted by Ferdinand's messy buns.
> 
> _no additional tags/warnings apply_

If there is one thing Her Majesty’s retainer abhors, it is distractions.

(There are many things he abhors. But he is presently finding distractions to be . . . particularly distracting.)

So as spring bleeds into summer and the poorly-ventilated, thick-stoned walls of the former monastery’s council room conspire to distract him most grievously in the form of General Aegir clumsily attempting to lift his long, wavy locks off of his neck.

He tries wrapping the hair around a quill, and then pinning the quill into place, but the resulting bun just collapsed. He tries braiding it, but over the course of their long morning meeting, the braid unravels, sticking to his sweat-damp neck. Finally, he fathers it all up into his white-gloved fist, and holds it out to one side.

It isn’t just the fidgeting that Hubert finds distracting—though that’s certainly a part. No, he is additionally vexed by that long expanse of pale neck exposed by said hair, dewy skin vanishing down beneath a high collar. And while Hubert might, under ordinary circumstances, find it easy to ignore the many times he has contemplated that neck and how it might feel beneath his fingertips—how fresh and soft it might taste on his lips—Ferdinand’s constant movements keep drawing his attention to it, particularly as it pinkens from the heat and sweat.

So when Her Majesty adjourns their strategy session for a brief break for lunch, Hubert knows precisely what he must do.

“Something lovely for a lady?” the shopkeep asks him, as he browses the market stalls. “Maybe something to match her dress, or pretty eyes . . .”

Hubert makes a face at her as he scans her spools of ribbons and lace trim. “I think green or burgundy will do.”

“You’ve an excellent eye, sir. Maybe this lovely bit of red velvet?”

Hubert studies the spool she’s holding out; then, sheepish, peels off the glove of his right hand. His chest tightens as he rubs his bare fingers against the short nap of the velvet, sumptuous and indulgent—

With an embarrassed flush, he jams his hand back into its glove. “That will do.”

Once he returns to the monastery, he catches Ferdinand outside the meeting chambers and beckons him over. “General. Might I speak with you in my office before we reconvene?”

Ferdinand blinks, eyebrows raising, but nods. The poor man looks positively wilted from the heat, Hubert notes, as he ushers him away from the other council members’ eyes. He is only doing a kindness he would do any member of the empire in a similar situation.

“Please.” Hubert closes his office door behind them. “Have a seat.”

Ferdinand settles into the guest chair, but twists back to look at Hubert. “Vestra? What’s this all about?”

Hubert thrusts his hand into the paper sack and withdraws the red ribbon; as he holds it out to Ferdinand, he forces himself to look away. “Does this meet with your approval?”

“I . . . Yes? It’s a lovely hue. But I don’t understand—”

Hubert nods, decisive, and begins to remove his gloves. “Might you allow me to—” And here his confident tone falters—“to, ah, braid your hair?” In a rush, he adds, “I did notice it was troubling you.”

“Oh.” The hushed quality to Ferdinand’s voice reels him in—but he mustn’t be distracted, not now, when he’s so close to resolving this inconvenience. “I would . . . like that. Yes.”

And so Hubert parts his hair into three, and tries not to dwell too much on the rich ripple of silky curls against his bare palms as he works. He fashions the braid so that it coils back on itself to keep it off of Ferdinand’s neck. And that tender sweep of his fingers against said nape—that sensation he will have to examine better on his own.

At last he ties it off with the ribbon. “There we are. That should help.”

Before he can step back, though, Ferdinand’s gloved hand reaches up to catch his bare one. Hubert stifles a cry as their fingers lace together; as Ferdinand’s hand tightens on his own in a steady squeeze.

“Thank you,” Ferdinand murmurs, and turns to face him.

And now his whole face is flush as his neck, his lips so lovely and ripe—

“Minister Vestra, might I—” Ferdinand swallows. “Perhaps you will join me for tea once our meetings are done for the day? Or we could take supper togeth—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hubert breathes, far too hastily.

But Ferdinand’s bashful smile rewards him amply. “Then I shall look forward to it.”

And so, for all his effort, Hubert has found two new distractions in the afternoon portion of their meeting: red velvet nestled in copper locks, and the promise of the evening to come.


	2. Hubert & Bernadetta - anon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Gen // Hubert & Bernadetta for anon**
> 
> Bernadetta is writing a murder mystery, and asks Hubert for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Gen // Hubert & Bernadetta for anon**
> 
> Bernadetta is writing a murder mystery, and asks Hubert for help.
> 
> _Additional tags:_ poisoning (mentioned), murder (mentioned), Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra (background), Bernadetta von Varley/Edelgard von Hresvelg (implied)

Bernadetta approaches the garden alcove within the imperial courtyard, where Minister Vestra is enjoying a tea break with his husband. “Um. Hubert?” she asks nervously, clutching her notebook to her chest.

Hubert’s smitten smile is instantly replaced with his usual neutral expression as he looks up at her. “Lady Varley. Something I can assist you with?”

“Y-yes. If you don’t mind.” She glances apologetically at Ferdinand. “I’m sorry, it shouldn’t take very long—I know it’s your day off—”

“Nonsense. I’m always happy to help.” Hubert stands, and presses a kiss to Ferdinand’s temple before joining Bernadetta at the alcove’s entrance. “What do you need?”

“Could we, uh, maybe talk somewhere . . . privately? How about—here.”

She shuffles toward another bench within the gardens, sheltered by a wall of bougainvilleas spilling over it and a babbling fountain nearby. Hubert follows, hands tucked deferentially behind his back. It’s hard to believe, when he’s surrounded by all these flowers, cheeks still flushed with newlywed bliss, just who he is and what he’s capable of. But she can never forget. And it’s that expertise she needs.

Unfortunately.

“Now.” He settles onto the bench beside her, gloved hands clasped before him. She glances anxiously at those gloves, and tries not to imagine what sort of stains he’s scrubbed from them. “How might I be of assistance?”

She sets the notebook in her lap and squeezes its edges. “Um. It’s about . . . murder.”

Hubert’s eyebrows briefly flick upward, but otherwise his expression doesn’t change. “I see.” He unfolds his hands; drops his leg down from where he’s crossed it at the knee. “Perhaps we should discuss this in my office instead—”

“ _Fictional_ murder!” she adds, in a rush. “Not a real one! I—I don’t need anyone killed!”

He laughs darkly to himself. The sort of laugh that used to terrify her, but she’s come to accept as just— _Hubert_ , caring in his own weird, decidedly stabby way. “If you’re quite certain.”

“Extremely.” She fiddles with the notebook’s cover. “So. Um. As you might know, I have a—a _friend_ who likes to write stories—”

“Oh, yes.” His sharp eyes glitter with amusement. “Ferdinand has shared with me some of your ‘friend’s’ books.”

She swallows down a gulp, hoping _Foreboding Shadow_ wasn’t one of them. “But, um. They’re trying to write a murder mystery, and they need a foolproof way the murderer could have tried to kill someone and make it look like it was about something else.”

“Mm. I see. Well, ‘foolproof’ isn’t so much an attainable goal as something to aspire toward . . . but depending on the circumstances, some methods are better than others.” He leans back. “Why don’t you tell me a bit more about the plot it needs to serve?”

“Well, um. There’s this wicked earl, right? And he’s keeping his brave young adopted daughter locked up on his estate. And when he dies, everyone suspects the girl of killing him, but she’s been really sick. So her friend—um, this other girl she knew from the neighboring county—she sets out to clear her name . . .”

Hubert’s brow has furrowed further and further as she talked. “You did say this was fiction, yes?”

“Oh, totally! Yeah. It’s not um—based on anything either.”

“No. I should hope not.” He taps one gloved finger against his lip. “Well, it sounds to me that your friend requires an actual killer, perhaps one who is trying to blame the young girl, and then they can work backward from there.” He gestures to his notebook. “You need the method the duke—I mean earl— _actually_ dies, and then the method that he initially _appears_ to have died from.”

“Ooh. That’s good. And once the girl—the one who’s investigating, I mean—once she finds out the _real_ cause of death, she’ll know it can’t have been the sick adopted daughter, right?”

“Precisely.” He frowns. “But who is the real killer?”

“Oh. I haven’t dec—” She winces. “I don’t think my friend knows just yet.”

“Perhaps, if this wicked earl’s deeds are brought to light, the perpetrator matters less than the justice that was served.”

“Ooh. That’s good. I’ll tell them that.” She opens the notebook and starts to jot that down.”

“As for the means of death . . . Maybe an organ-liquefying poison is best. It can clearly look as though the adopted daughter selected it for retribution for making her ill. But the perpetrator cared less about how it looked, and just wanted him dead.”

“Okay. Okay, this is great.” She scribbles down some more. “This should give them a lot to think about.”

“Barring poison . . . A blade in the night is never remiss. Cutting one’s throat in their own bed . . . it is intimate. Messy. Vicious. Only someone with a burning hatred for this earl—perhaps someone else he wronged—would be capable of such a thing. Which could fit the sickly adopted daughter . . . but someone else as well.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Bernadetta exclaims. “Oh, this is perfect. Thank you so much!”

“You’re most welcome. And if your, ah, friend requires further information—don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“I’ll do that.”

He stands, and offers her a polite bow. He starts to leave the alcove, but then pauses, frowning in thought—

“This spry young investigator—she wouldn’t happen to be seeking to curry the affections of the adopted daughter, now, would she?”

Bernadetta’s whole face burns up. “I—I don’t think they’ve decided that just yet! But, um, maybe? I don’t know!”

He nods to himself, thoughtful. “Well. Should they choose to write it thusly . . . I do not think it would be unwelcome.”

“Thank you!” Bernadetta blurts at his retreating back, which is about all she can manage before she smolders into a pile of humiliated ash.

She glances back at her notes with a satisfied grin. She has some work to do.


	3. Hubert/Ferdinand - jellijeans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hubert/Ferdinand - jellijeans**
> 
> Hurt/comfort post-battle.
> 
>  **Additional tags:** blood, injuries, battlefield violence (mentioned), established relationship

The first thing he sees when he comes to is a single green eye, glowering down at him. The first thing he _feels_ is an agonizing streak of fire running the length of his thigh. Ferdinand tries to shift, to move, but two hands quickly clamp onto his shoulders and press him back down.

“Don’t move,” a dark voice orders him. “You’ll only tear the stitches.”

“Stitches?” Ferdinand mumbles, but even as he says it, a jumble of memories spill through his mind.

He’d been charging—recklessly, he admits—into enemy lines, determined to stop the swordsman advancing on Hubert’s right side. Then he’d turned in the saddle—the blade had slipped past his greaves—

“You were not watching your right,” Ferdinand says. “Again.”

One of the hands at his shoulder slips up to cup his face, and a thumb brushes over his cheekbone. “Dear heart. Don’t you ever throw yourself in harm’s way on my account—”

“I should say the same to you!” Ferdinand cries—then winces at the throbbing it sets off against his ribs. “Oh.”

Hubert exhales, eyes squeezed shut, then leans over to press his forehead to Ferdinand’s own. Ferdinand breathes in the scent of him. The poor man smells—exhausted. He reeks of stale coffee, and as though he has not bathed in a few days, musky and worn down. Something dark and arcane curls around the edges of the smell, and beneath it all, the metallic tang of blood.

“Hubert?” Ferdinand asks carefully. “How long have you been sitting there?”

Hubert is quiet for a moment, gaze retreating inward. “I’m—I’m not sure.”

Ferdinand grimaces. “A rough guess?”

“. . . Two days?” he hazards.

“So five or six,” Ferdinand says. “You absurd raven. Why on earth would you—”

Hubert’s other hand slides into Ferdinand’s, their fingers locking together. Reinforcing each other. “Ferdie. You’d—you’d lost so much blood.” His voice fractures like porcelain. “If it had been even an inch higher—”

Ferdinand pushes his head back into the pillow to get a better look at Hubert now. The deep, dark bag beneath his eye, yes, but his rumpled, rust-stained white dress shirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair in dark clumps. With a frown, Ferdinand brings their joined hands to his mouth, and finds blood dried along the edges of his nail beds.

“I am no healer,” Hubert says quietly. “All I could do was bring you to the medics’ tent. And—”

Ferdinand waits, heart thick in his throat.

“And—deal with those who tried to take you from me.” When Hubert closes his eyes this time, his lashes are damp. “There was nothing else I could do, and that’s my own fault, my own damned fault for not learning how—”

“Darling. Stop.” Ferdinand kisses the joint of Hubert’s index finger, keeping his mouth soft around it for a moment. “You have nothing to apologize for. You saved me, from the sound of things.”

Hubert’s hand twitches within his. “It should have been more.”

“More? Because it appears to me that you saved my life, you slew my attackers, and then you sat by my bed for _days_ , not even tending to yourself—”

“I wanted to be here.” Hubert’s lower lip quivers. “I wanted to be here if you woke up.”

_If._

Ferdinand kisses Hubert’s finger again, fiercer this time, tongue sweeping over stained, wounded skin. He doesn’t want to think too much about it. _Ridiculous,_ he thinks to himself. He’s the one who was grievously wounded, and all he can think of is the pain Hubert must have endured.

“But I am here,” Ferdinand says. “With you.”

Hubert smiles, though the rise of his cheeks only seems to dislodge a single tear from the corner of his eye. “Yes.”

“And if you should make yourself sick, or injured, or expose yourself to—to danger—because you have wrung yourself out watching over me, then I shall be very cross with you.”

Hubert chokes back a relieved laugh. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“C’mere,” Ferdinand murmurs, and tugs his hand to pull him close.

Hubert’s face hovers before his, damp-eyed and open. And what a gift it is, Ferdinand thinks, to see the emperor’s shadow so illuminated and vulnerable. What a sacred offering of himself, more valuable and rare than any healing magic or vengeance he could have offered.

“I love you,” Ferdinand says, grazing Hubert’s nose with his own. “And I am very stubborn. It will take much more than a single sword to rid you of me.”

Hubert laughs, breath warming Ferdinand’s face. “I love you. And you shall not be so easily rid of _me_.”

Ferdinand kisses him, slowly, carefully so as not to set off a fresh rush of pain. But they have time together. Time enough, still, to love another and fight another day. And for that, he couldn’t be more grateful.


	4. Dimitri/Dedue - Mai_B16_ and Steph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dimitri/Dedue - Mai_B16_ and Steph**
> 
> Dimitri starts to regain his sense of taste; and they celebrate a Duscur holiday together.

Dedue manages to swoop in moments before Dimitri can dump an entire bowl of sugar into the _gorma_ stew. “Dima,” he says gently, “remember what we said about double checking ingredients?”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” He smiles sheepishly, fingers trembling beneath Dedue’s against the sugar bowl. “It looked like the salt.”

“And did you test it?” Dedue asks, fingers lacing through his to steady them.

Dimitri exhales, eye squeezed shut. Breathes in slowly. “I will test it in the future.”

Dedue has heard this before. He gently eases the bowl from his love’s hand and sets it down, then, because there is no reason not to, because there should never be a reason not to, he wraps both arms around Dimitri’s waist from behind. Dimitri sighs, more pleasantly this time, and lets his lithe form be enveloped. They rock back and forth in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the bubbling of stew, the crackle of flames, and the nearby twinkling laughter of their friends.

“You’re doing well.” Dedue nestles a kiss on Dimitri’s temple, and Dimitri hums, muscles going slack in the embrace. “This means a lot to them.” He hesitates—but he has promised to allow himself to be selfish, from time to time. “It means everything to me.”

“I just want it to be perfect,” Dimitri says, a touch petulantly. “It’s your holiday, and—and I didn’t even know about it, didn’t know all those years I prevented you from celebrating . . .”

Dedue pauses. “I should have spoken up.”

“No.” Dimitri’s tone is firm now. “I should have asked.”

“Well.” Dedue swallows past the lump welling in his throat. “It means more to me now that we have—a family. Friends.” An even footing, he thinks—in so many tiny ways. “The Night of Endless Starlight is meant to be shared with those you would trust in eternal darkness. Anyone can be your ally in a bright summer day, but your starlight friends—they are everything.”

Dimitri shivers before turning in Dedue’s arms to gaze up at him. “Can you trust me in darkness?” he asks.

Perhaps an unfair question. They have endured incredible darkness, together and apart—and he has seen how darkness ravaged his love. Dedue brings one hand to Dimitri’s cheek, and Dimitri leans into it with a feline sigh.

“I trust you to walk with me into the light.”

Dimitri’s eye opens at that, dewy but bright. “And I you, love. But . . .” He turns toward the prep table. “I want to try this _enjeer_ you’ve raved about so much.”

With a grin, Dedue picks up one of the rolled-up slices of fluffy, spongy, slightly sour bread and tears off a chunk for Dimitri. “Take it slowly. Focus on how it feels rather than tastes.”

“Hmm.” Dimitri pops it into his mouth and starts to chew—then force himself to stop and savor it. “Oh. It’s very . . . airy. Chewy, but not—too much. And a little, um.” A crease appears between his brows. “. . . Sour?”

Dedue blinks. “Sour is a thing you taste.”

“I know, I just—can’t think of another word for it.” He swallows, sheepish. “Is that—is that right?”

Dedue blinks away the dampness in his own eyes now. “Yes. Of course.” He presses another kiss, on Dimitri’s forehead this time, then hurries to the stew to toss in the forgotten salt. “Um.” He takes a deep breath. “Would you gather the others? I think we are ready to eat soon.”

“Of course, my love.”

Dedue shivers as Dimitri squeezes his arm before turning to head into the main dining room of the country hall where they’ve taken refuge for the winter, away from Fhirdiad’s relentless chaos and noise that stirs so many ghosts. A lonely, desolate land for the Night of Endless Starlight. But, Dedue thinks as he watches that golden head retreat, a bright one all the same.


	5. Hubert/Ferdinand - DoriDraws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hubert/Ferdinand - DoriDraws**
> 
> Hubert and Ferdinand take a horseback ride in fresh-fallen snow.

Hubert burrows deeper into his heavy scarves with a glower as his mare, Avané, plods through the fresh-fallen snow. “Come on, Hubert!” Ferdinand calls from up ahead, where his gelding, Marcus, is effortlessly prancing through the fluffy drifts. “What is taking you so long?”

“It’s your horse,” Hubert shouts back, or tries to, through his chattering teeth.

Avané tosses her head with a soft nicker.

“I’m sorry.” Hubert pats her neck. “I didn’t mean that. Please do not toss me off into the snow.”

“Almost there!” Ferdinand calls, weaving through the pine trees. Hubert lifts his head just as Ferdinand pulls Marcus up short. “Ah. Perfect.”

Hubert can hardly imagine what could be perfect about any of this. Ferdinand has dragged him out for a ride just before dusk on this, the shortest day of the year, under a fresh blanket of snow, with a heavy shroud of clouds blotting out what little light overhead there might have been. His toes are beginning to tingle in his boots, and he’s only keeping his fingers warm courtesy a simmering spell that he snuffs out every few minutes to keep it from catching his gloves on fire. His nose is bright red, and ice crystals are forming on his bangs, and—

“Oh,” Hubert breathes, as Avané draws up alongside Marcus.

At the crest of the ridge, the valley spreads before them, vast and glacially beautiful. White tufts flock the pines that slope down gently to the pale blue ice atop a lake’s surface. Between two mountains in the distance, thin fingers of golden sunlight stretch wide, glistening off the lake. Everything is still and alive all at once, silver and bright threaded with dark stone and wood.

Ferdinand leans toward him with a smug smile, and Hubert doesn’t even mind. “I told you it would be worth it.”

“Right as always, my love.” Hubert slips his gloved hand into Ferdinand’s. “How did you find this place?”

“Oh, I am always looking for new routes on my morning rides.” He squeezes Hubert’s hand. “I know we’ve a long night ahead of us. But I thought we could watch the last of the day slip away together here.”

“I suppose it can only get brighter after tonight,” Hubert allows.

With a contented sigh, Ferdinand rests his head on Hubert’s shoulder. A stray snowflake finds its way onto his amber lashes, and Hubert starts to reach out to flick it away—but decides it’s doing no harm. He tilts his head to kiss Ferdinand’s temple instead.

And because here, alone in the world like this, he doesn’t care how sappy he sounds—

“My days are always brighter with you in them.”

“Oh, now you are just humoring me.” Ferdinand swats him on the arm and straightens up, and Marcus shuffles beneath him.

“Doesn’t mean I mean it any less.” Hubert smiles.

Ferdinand catches him by the chin and pulls him close for a fleeting kiss—chill quickly replaced by a spreading warmth that reaches all the way to Hubert’s numb toes. Hubert exhales, unable to stop smiling, and rests his forehead to Ferdinand’s for a moment before they straighten once more.

The golden rays dim as the sun slips further away, and Ferdinand juts out his lower lip. “Well. I suppose there’s only one thing to do.”

“Head back and warm ourselves with our hot beverages of choice?” Hubert asks hopefully.

“Ha! Of course not!” Ferdinand gestures to the lake below them. “We must go ice skating, naturally.”

Hubert groans—then stops himself as he catches Ferdinand’s mischievous grin. “Oh. You’re a wicked one.”

“I learn from the best.” Ferdinand tugs at Marcus’s reins. “Come on. Let us head back and thaw you out.”

But Hubert can never be too cold as long as Ferdinand is near.


	6. Hubert/Ferdinand - blastriot and IloveHajishun111

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hubert/Ferdinand - blastriot and IloveHajishun111**
> 
> For the prompt: reluctant kissing under the mistletoe.
> 
> _additional tags:_ Alcohol, drunken kissing, Alternate Universe - Modern

Perhaps if Edelgard hadn’t _insisted_ on buying the whole damned crate of champagne for her holiday party, he might have been better able to see where he was going. At least well enough not to duck into the parlor at the same time as blasted Ferdinand von Aegir, colliding with him and his armload of freshly baked cookies, the Tupperware bins skittering everywhere and Hubert just barely managing to keep hold of the champagne.

“Hubert!” Ferdinand cries, rushing to gather up his cookie containers. “Please try to watch where you are going!”

“One could say the same to you,” he snaps.

“Uh-oh! Party foul!” Caspar shouts, from the other end of the parlor, though he’s moving quick, bounding over couches to help with the cookies. “I get first dibs on the ginger snaps!”

“Um. Hubie? Ferdie?” Dorothea folds her arms, then raises her eyebrows toward the archway over them. “Mistletoe rules.”

_Oh, hell, no._ Hubert shoves the box of champagne bottles into Caspar’s arms. There is _no_ way he’s playing some idiotic mistletoe game with Ferdinand. And _especially_ not after what transpired after their happy hour last week, celebrating the closing of the Hrym deal—

His entire face goes red just thinking about it.

“Oh. Um. It was . . . it was an accident, Hubert, there’s no need to—” Ferdinand tugs anxiously at the collar of his infuriatingly tight sweater. “I mean, I know it is tradition, but—”

“You don’t _have_ to,” Dorothea says, “but it’d kinda be going against the holiday spirit, don’t you think?” Her smirk spreads as she looks at Hubert. “I’m sure it’s no great hardship.”

Hubert makes an undignified squeak. Surely Dorothea doesn’t know about last week. Although she is good friends with Ferdinand—but even _he_ has to be more discreet than that—

Oh, Hubert is going make him regret this.

“All right, Ferdinand. Fine.” He bares his teeth in a vicious smile. “Happy holidays, right?”

Ferdinand swallows, shrinking into his shoulders as Hubert steps closer. “Um—precisely.”

Hubert grips his chin, locks eyes with him—waits for a faint nod from Ferdinand—then smashes his mouth to Ferdinand’s.

Ferdinand’s mouth opens immediately, and he fists at Hubert’s sweater, locking them together—then he’s sucking Hubert’s tongue into his mouth, and, _oh_ , was this how it went last week, so with a snarl, Hubert straightens, drawing Ferdinand to him—

Ferdinand breaks away first with a gasp. And that gasp, delicious as it is, is regrettably the _only_ noise Hubert hears then, aside from Bing Crosby somewhere in the distance, because every last one of their friends are staring at them open-mouthed—

“Wow. Have you guys been practicing that, or what?” Caspar asks, earning him a quick swat from Dorothea.

“So do they not hate each other anymore?” Petra asks, though Dorothea quickly shushes her.

Hubert lets go of Ferdinand hastily and smooths out his own sweater. “N-now that that’s settled.”

“R-right,” Ferdinand says, with an indignant lift of his chin.

Hubert stalks over to the bar to fix himself a drink, and slowly, the party resumes around him. But that mistletoe must have really worked its cursed poison—because now all he can think about is finding an opportunity to do that again.

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)


End file.
